They’re not eternal, these heavens,
these absent galaxies,
not eternal, this blue star forlorn -
only we mourn.
We mourn as a small creature,
in the hills, sometimes, mourns away,
except that maybe our hurt is deeper:
will the memory stay?
Will the two of you ever, in memory, here,
as you did, live again - will the memory go?
Will you be, at least, without the memory, together?
Will she, will you know.